


Snapshots

by zadigfate



Series: What We Call Love [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Asexual!Sherlock, Asexuality, Genderbend, Kidfic, Other, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationship, Pregnancy, girl!Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 23:03:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zadigfate/pseuds/zadigfate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moments from the life of Joan Watson as she attempts to become pregnant with the child of her platonic and asexual flatmate.</p>
<p>(Follows from 'A Chain of Evolutionary Success')</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conception

**Author's Note:**

> It took me, what, two days to cave in and continue this story? I really am a sucker for platonic kidfics.
> 
> This is the direct sequel to 'A Chain of Evolutionary Success', but it's not necessary to have read that first. All you need to know is that Sherlock and Joan are not romantically involved, but are trying to get pregnant.

Sherlock didn't lift his eyes from the book he was reading ( _Practical Beekeeping_ ) when Joan came downstairs that morning. He paused; there was something _wrong_ in the way she shuffled across the sitting room. The tone in her usual "Morning, Sherlock," was dull and weary and not at all like Joan.

 

His eyes flicked up to take in the visual data. She was still in her dressing gown, making tea in the kitchen, and she stared back at him warily as his eyes swept over her from head to toe.

 

The book lowered in his hands and he leaned back in his chair.

 

"You're menstruating," he observed.

 

"Brilliant," she snapped. She pulled two mugs from the cupboard and set them on the counter-top with much more force than necessary. "Really brilliant deduction, Sherlock."

 

"You're frustrated."

 

"In top form today, I see," she said bitterly.

 

"Joan," he said. "This is only the third month you've attempted to conceive. Human fertility isn't a straightforward endeavour, it will take time."

 

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I know," she sighed irritably. "I'm just – angry. At myself. For waiting so long. I made it so much harder on myself than it could have been and if I've really missed my opportunity... I don't know." She ran a hand through her short hair.

 

"Well," said Sherlock. "So far, you've only tried to conceive naturally... as naturally as the circumstances allow, that is," he corrected himself. "There are plenty of resources available to assist fertility, or improve the efficiency of the artificial insemination process itself. But surely this is all familiar to you?"

 

Joan rolled her eyes. "Family medicine might not have been my concentration, but I have done a bit of research on the subject, thank you..."

 

"It would be premature to write off your own fertility after only following a single method of insemination for so brief a time period."

 

"I know." She turned off the kettle and poured steaming water over the tea leaves in their mugs. She picked up one in each hand and shuffled over to join Sherlock in their armchairs.

 

"But?" he prompted.

 

She shook her head. "But nothing. You're right. I ought to be talking to Sarah at the surgery - maybe get myself referred to a fertility clinic." She drummed her fingers on the edge of the chair. "Inevitable, I guess."

 

Sherlock closed the book on his lap and folded his fingers in front of his lips. Joan took great offence to this; her fertility was more than a simple puzzle for Sherlock to figure out. She resented the piercing sweep of his eyes.

 

"You're still frustrated," he observed.

 

She groaned and rubbed her temple. "Brilliant, Sherlock."

 

"I don't understand."

 

"It's nothing," she said dully. "I guess I'm – afraid to seek help, afraid that it won't work, that I'll be told that I just can't have children."

 

"Wouldn't it be more efficient to know sooner?" He appeared genuinely confused. "I don't understand the logic of your fears, Joan."

 

She sighed. "It's _not_ logical. It's just – one of those weird human things, like sentiment. I'm afraid to be... disappointed."

 

"Frankly, Joan, I'm disappointed in _you_."

 

"What?" Her head jerked up. "Why?" she demanded, her eyes flashing.

 

"Because a _child_ is at stake, and you would rather give into fears and insecurities over your own fertility than explore better options of bringing them into the world. It's entirely unlike you, Joan, and I'm quite disappointed."

 

For a few moments she just stared at him, her mouth slightly open. He was unperturbed by her scrutiny and merely sipped his tea, waiting for her to collect herself.

 

Finally she closed her mouth and leaned back in her chair. "It _is_ a bit stupid of me, isn't it," she said quietly.

 

"Yes. I'd expect more from _you_ , of all people," he said.

 

Joan sighed.

 

"Get that referral," said Sherlock, picking up his book again. "Make an appointment with a fertility expert. We'll go speak with them and see what can be done."

 

A smile pulled at the corner of her lips. "'We'? Are you planning to come with me, then?"

 

"Obviously." He was already involved again in his reading and did not look up.

 

Joan smiled, despite herself. Sherlock was right, as always. There was more to be done, and they owed it to the child to try their hardest.

 

**

 

Joan emerged from the loo, thermometer and small plastic strip in hand. Sherlock was waiting just outside the door. "Okay," she said, showing him the little grey happy face on the display. "Definitely ovulating. So... ah..." she grimaced. "It's on you, then."

 

Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh.

 

**

 

Sherlock had been conducting endless research (thankfully no experiments) on conception, pregnancy, and childbirth, and nearly drove Joan out of her mind with his constant monitoring and questioning of her diet, her heart rate, and her activities – interspersed with the occasional factoid that she either already knew or didn't  _want_ to know.

 

"Have you been regularly checking the consistency of your cervical mucous?" he asked her one morning over breakfast. "As you approach ovulation, it should become less viscous and acquire--"

 

"Jesus, Sherlock!" she cried. "Not now, all right? Not  _ever_ ."

 

"I'm trying to help," he said defensively.

 

"All right, well, for the future, enquiring after the state of your flatmate's cervical mucous is  _a bit not good_ . Especially while said flatmate is  _eating_ ."

 

"Yes, that's what reminded me, in fact," he remarked. "I was just reading last week that the cervical mucous should take on the consistency of egg whites during ovulation."

 

Joan looked down at the fried eggs on her plate. "...Great."

 

**

 

After Joan and Sherlock had both received positive results on their fertility tests from the clinic, the mood in 221B lifted tremendously.

 

There was thirty quid pinned to the mantelpiece with a knife, a prize for the first of the pair to correctly identify the first confirmed symptoms of Joan's pregnancy. Sherlock had contributed ten and Joan consented to put down twenty when Sherlock complained that she had an unfair advantage, being able to feel slight changes in her body that were unobservable to Sherlock.

 

"Sherlock, this is ridiculous," she insisted. "I'm a doctor, not to mention the one of us who is  _actually_ getting pregnant. You can't possibly expect to win."

 

"Oh, Joan," he sighed, adopting his 'you-poor-mortals' tone. "It will hardly be difficult. It  _is_ a matter of observation, after all. And you know what I always say--"

 

"That I see but don't observe, yes," she cut him off. "But there's nothing to  _see_ . It's  _inside_ me."

 

He smiled and folded his hands under his chin. "We will see."

 

"About it being inside me? I really hope not."

 

They both laughed. Well, Joan laughed; Sherlock smiled, and that was close enough.

 

**

 

At 2am, Joan was curled up against Sherlock on the couch, crying.

 

"I'm too old," she choked, wiping her cheeks with her arm. "I'll never have kids."

 

Sherlock was holding her awkwardly. "You will," he said. "It's... statistically probable that it will happen eventually. We are both confirmed fertile adults."

 

She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing something that he couldn't understand through the muffling effect of his skin. He patted her shoulder uncertainly.

 

"It will be all right," he assured her. She cried and tightened her grip on him.

 

He squeezed her tighter in return. That was the thing to do, wasn't it, to comfort someone who was crying?

 

**

 

"Are you still standing by your diagnosis,  _Doctor_ Holmes?" Joan drawled.

 

"I maintain that you have been more exhausted in the last week than normal," said Sherlock, his arms folded across his chest. "And your calorie consumption has increased, even if you insist you haven't noticed it."

 

"I've been taking more hours at the clinic this week," she pointed out. "So yes, I'm more tired and I eat more because I'm more active during the day. And I can't use coffee to keep myself awake anymore."

 

"No, this time, I'm quite sure."

 

They were standing together in the tiny bathroom of their flat. On the counter beside the sink, lying face down, were two pregnancy tests. Different brands, because Sherlock insisted on nothing but scientific rigour (she'd talked him down from four the previous month and six the one before that; it was getting pricey). Both of them were pointedly ignoring the offending bits of plastic.

 

Joan rolled her eyes. "You can't pull this every month, Sherlock. You insist that you observed some vague symptom like 'you seem tired' or 'you ate an extra piece of toast yesterday' or 'you threw a fit over something inane'. We ought to impose some kind of penalty – lose two quid of my twenty for every bad guess."

 

"I swear, this time, I'm sure," he insisted. "If you're not convinced, let's make it more  _interesting_ ." He paused to think. "If I get it wrong this time, you can choose the name of our child," he said finally. "But if I'm right,  _I_ get naming rights."

 

Joan snorted. "I had no idea you would care about that, Sherlock!"

 

"I have some ideas."

 

"Frankly, I'm a little terrified at what you might come up with. Elements of the periodic table? Criminal masterminds you admire from history? Famous chemists?"

 

"None of the above, although now that you mention it..."

 

Sherlock's phone began to beep and buzz against the bathroom counter. Both of them audibly drew in their breaths.

 

"Well?" said Sherlock, picking up the phone. He looked at Joan, who was still frozen in place. "Do we have a deal?"

 

She started. "What? What deal?"

 

"The names, Joan. Do we have a deal?"

 

Her fingers were twitching with the urge to turn over the tests right then. "Is this  _actually_ important to you?" she pressed. "Because if you're going to treat naming our child as some big joke, you can forget it."

 

He looked almost hurt. "I wouldn't joke about that."

 

Her eyes darted between his face and the pregnancy tests lying face-down on the counter.

 

"I'll agree," she said. "But  _only_ if I retain the right to veto. And I get to choose the middle name."

 

"Fine, fine." He waved his hands impatiently. "Come on, let's do this. I need to know."

 

She nodded – more a jerk of her head – and reached with trembling fingers for a test on the counter. Sherlock reached for the other. Joan's fingers stopped mere centimetres from the plastic. "Call it?" she joked weakly.

 

"Positive, obviously," he said impatiently. He was leaning forward. "Come on!"

 

She took a deep breath. "All right, so...  _un, deux, trois_ ..."

 

They flipped the tests simultaneously.

 

Sherlock smirked.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as he was able to untangle himself from the embrace of a crying Joan Watson, Sherlock was on the phone and pacing the floor – not texting but actually _speaking_ to whoever was on the other line. Joan barely noticed. She sat on the couch, clutching a pillow to her chest and sniffling with the occasional mad giggle slipping out.

 

Sherlock hung up with a flourish and spun around dramatically to face her. “Joan!” he barked, invading her personal space. “Do you still have the dress you bought for the case in Bohemia?”

 

Joan rubbed her eyes with the back of her wrist. “I, I think so. Sherlock, why--?”

 

“To celebrate, _obviously_!” he said, waving his hands impatiently. There was a brilliant smile on his face, the sort that Joan was only privileged to see on rare occasions – usually on the trail of a particularly elegant crime. “I've made us reservations in half an hour, but you've got to dress the part. Some make-up wouldn't hurt either; your eyes look ghastly from the tears.”

 

Joan glared at him but couldn't keep the smile from her face. “You really know how to charm a woman into a dinner date, don't you?”

 

He tilted his head. “What? Why do you say that?”

 

Joan snorted and wiped away the last traces of her tears. “Doesn't matter,” she said, smiling to herself. “I'll go get dressed, shall I?”

 

* * *

 

A quarter of an hour later – they hadn't _quite_ managed to get their act together on time as Joan broke into tears again halfway through applying her eyeliner – Sherlock was marching her on his arm into a restaurant so posh that she blushed a deep crimson as they crossed the threshold.

 

“Sherlock,” she hissed. “There's _no way_ we can eat here. We haven't got the money and I – I don't look _nearly_ posh enough to be here!”

 

“The bill is well taken care of,” Sherlock murmured, leaning his lips close to her ear. “And you look perfectly fine. If you can look good enough to greet continental royalty, you can certainly pass for posh in a London dining establishment.”

 

It warmed her heart to hear him say so, but Joan couldn't help glancing nervously at the other patrons. _I should have taken more care with my make-up_ , she thought desperately; _worn better jewelry! My shoes, oh god – these heels are a discount brand_!

 

Sherlock, of course, was observing her tension. “Relax,” he said.

 

“All right,” she said. She took a deep breath but it didn't slow her pounding heart. _Relax_ , she told herself sternly. _You look great, you have every right to be here_. _This place isn't_ that _high class_.

 

The maître-d' quickly came to greet them. “Bonsoir, madame, monsieur.”

 

_Oh god_ !

 

Joan shrunk against Sherlock, who was unmoved. “Bonsoir,” he greeted in return. “J'ai fait une réservation 'y a une demi-heure, nous sommes deux – sur le nom «  _Holmes_ ».”

 

Joan knew nothing about proper French accents (she'd taken German in sixth form) but Sherlock's sounded damn near perfect to her.

 

“Bien sûr, alo-ors...” he looked down at his computer and flicked the touch screen with his finger before nodding in approval. “Ahh oui, monsieur _Holmes_.” The name clearly sparked some recognition; his smile widened. “Suivez-moi, s'il vous plaît...”

 

Sherlock applied gentle pleasure to Joan's back, encouraging her forward.

 

Joan leaned over to his ear as they walked. “I didn't know you spoke French,” she hissed quietly.

 

“Of course I do,” he shot back, tilting his head into her. “I'm positive that I'd already told you my grandmother was French. _Really_ , Joan. Do keep up.”

 

The maître-d' seated them both at a choice table near the large French windows. Sherlock pulled out Joan's chair for her, and she was flattered and a bit embarrassed at the display of chivalry before remembering that it was probably expected, given the environment.

 

“La carte,” said the man with flourish, passing them both velvet-covered menus. “Voulez-vous voir la carte des vins...?”

 

“Merci,” replied Sherlock, shaking his head. “'Y faut pas...” he put his finger to his lips with a wink. “Grâce à ma femme, voyez-vous...?”

 

“Ahh!” said the maître-d', beaming at Joan. “Toutes mes félicitations, madame!”

 

Joan was unsure of the context, but she could guess at the direction of the conversation and smiled weakly. “Uh, merci... boh-cooh?”

 

Sherlock sighed. The maître-d' said nothing, but pursed his lips and (mercifully) left them to discuss their dinner options. Joan had a feeling she wouldn't have a clue what the items were even if she could read the French, but Sherlock did his best to 'translate' the dinner menu for her.

 

“Don't worry,” he said after a pause in the conversation while Joan was picking her first course. “I will ensure that they are much more competent.”

 

Joan looked up from the menu, frowning. “What? Who?”

 

“The baby,” he said. “In French.”

 

She smacked his hand with the folded menu, drawing a few glances from the surrounding tables. “Shut up, you.”

 

“I'll start them early,” he mused, ignoring her. “I will have to acquire some children's books...”

 

Joan rolled her eyes and re-opened her menu, hiding her face behind it petulantly. Perhaps she imagined it, but she thought she heard Sherlock chuckle.

 

* * *

 

As a doctor, Joan knew that “morning sickness” was a misnomer and that pregnancy-related nausea could occur at any time of day; and yet, until now, she'd failed to really understand that her textbooks did mean  _any_ time of day.

 

Lying on the couch, positive that her face must actually be pale green, she was thankful that she was barely employed. Her nausea quite unfairly seemed to have no regular pattern at all. Fortunately – or perhaps cruelly – the nausea rarely made her actually vomit, but it was otherwise intense and incredibly uncomfortable, and had the unfortunate side effect that she could never tell if she was actually going to throw up or not until the instant before it happened.

 

Whenever a fit of nausea came on, Joan just curled up on the couch with a bucket feeling awful. Sherlock was usually observant enough to notice the onset of her sickness and confine himself to another part of the flat with his experiments, but he wasn't always so quick. She didn't know if her short temper had to do with hormones or just that she felt like she might vomit at any moment, but she swore if he picked up that _fucking_ violin again while she was lying sick on the couch, she would snap his fucking bow _in half_.

 

Today he stayed in the same room, but it was fine. He was unusually calm, for Sherlock. Just typing away on his – indeed, his own – laptop this time. Maybe writing up something for his website. A new type of tobacco ash.

 

 _Tack tack tack tack tack_.

 

God his keyboard was loud. Had it always been that loud?

 

 _Tack tack tack tack_.

 

He paused.

 

 _Tack tack tack_...

 

Joan squirmed on the couch. She felt particularly horrible for a moment and thought about reaching for the bucket, but no, it passed in another minute. Sometimes she wished she could skip all this maddening nausea and just fucking throw up for once. Maybe she ought to go to the toilet and stick her finger in her throat until there was nothing left just so she wouldn't keep feeling so _awful_ , but she knew that “morning” sickness didn't work like that.

 

 _Tack tack tack tack tack tack tack_ (he was really on a roll now)...

 

Joan tried to think about anything other than her nausea or the clicking of Sherlock's keyboard. But the more she tried to focus on anything else, the more it filled her mind, pushing everything out until all her attention was reduced to the sickness and the typing.

 

 _TACK TACK TACK TACK TACK_...

 

 _Oh god if he doesn't fucking stop that_ right now _I will throw that bloody computer out the window_.

 

 _TACK TACK TACK_...

 

“Sorry,” she said a bit too sharply, “but could you do that somewhere else?”

 

 _Tack tack tack tack tack_... “What?” _tack tack tack_...

 

Behind the sweet smile she forced to her face she thought she would really like to punch him. “It's just, I feel awful, and you over there typing like a madman isn't helping.” She wanted that to sound friendly, but she thought it might have come out acidic instead.

 

 _Tack tack_ \--... “Is it bothering you?”

 

 _Of course it's fucking bothering me, I just fucking said so didn't I_?

 

“It's a bit loud.”

 

Sherlock frowned and tapped a couple of keys experimentally ( _tack tack_ ). “Hm. The keyboard is no louder than usual. I suspect you're just hormonal from the pregnancy, Joan.”

 

The thread of patience that had been so effective in separating Joan's hands from Sherlock's neck snapped and she sat up unsteadily. “ _Excuse me_?”

 

“Nothing to worry about, it's perfectly normal,” said Sherlock, eyes turning back to his computer. “Pregnancy tends to make women... emotional.”

 

“I'M NOT _FUCKING_ EMOTIONAL,” she snarled, actually making him jump in his seat. “I'm perfectly fine _thank you very much_ and by the way you should NEVER dismiss a woman as 'just hormonal' even if it MIGHT be true, because...” she trailed off and wavered a bit, closing her mouth. Then, forgetting her bucket and knocking it to the ground, she dashed to the kitchen sink just in time to bring up her breakfast.

 

She threw up twice and then waited, panting, for the next round, but there didn't seem to be more. She could hear the sounds of Sherlock getting up and walking away down the hall.

 

 _Bastard_ , she thought, tears stinging her eyes. _You heartless, irresponsible bastard... walk off when I'm sick, will you?_ She wiped her mouth and turned on the tap to rinse her sick down the drain.

 

Over the sound of running water, she could hear the creaking of a door in the hall, and footsteps coming back towards the kitchen. As he drew closer, Joan turned her head irritably to really rip into him for walking off... and he was standing there, with a neutral expression, holding out a glass of water from the bathroom.

 

Joan's angry words died in her throat and she took the glass. "Thanks," she said hoarsely, looking down at the floor.

 

Sherlock said nothing. Joan swished the water around her mouth and spat it into the sink twice before finally swallowing the rest.

 

" _Fuck_ ," she said, slamming the empty glass onto the counter.

 

Sherlock was quiet, but leaned forward slightly in concern.

 

Joan was staring at the empty glass, running her thumb along the rim. She sniffed. "Shit," she muttered. "I swore I wouldn't turn into one of those – one of those lunatic pregnant women that go off at the slightest offence. _Christ._ I'm a right bitch, aren't I?"

 

Sherlock looked at her with something close to compassion. "It's not something you can fully control," he said. "As I've explained, it's a matter of hormones."

 

Joan turned off the sink and turned around to lean on the counter, keeping her eyes far from meeting Sherlock's. "I know, I know – but do you think you can not go around telling me I'm being hormonal? Nothing pisses me off more than having my feelings dismissed as just ' _hormones_ ', even if it's true."

 

Sherlock's brows furrowed in a puzzled expression. "I'm not dismissing, but stating an empirical fact: the majority of your mood swings at this moment are caused by hormone fluctuations."

 

Joan scowled. "I know, just – can you just leave it alone? Please?"

 

He raised an eyebrow. "All right," he said, in the tone of voice he reserved for when he didn't understand (and thought she was mad) but submitted to her judgment anyway. "But I would like to continue typing on my laptop through your pregnancy."

 

"Go ahead," she said. "I feel a bit better so I think I'll take a nap anyway."

 

He nodded and left the kitchen to resume whatever he was doing on his laptop. Joan really was planning to take a nap in a bit, but first she took the scrubber and began to clean out the sink. Sherlock regularly filled it with worse things than human vomit, but she wanted to maintain some semblance of normality.

 

She just wished she wasn't so damn _moody_ all the time _._

 

* * *

 

Joan drifted back into wakefulness with the nagging feeling that she got whenever she'd been sleeping when she shouldn't have. _What time is it? How long did I sleep_? And she knew she ought to get up but she was just so comfortable, but gosh her pillow was warm and surprisingly firm and... not a pillow...

 

"It is eight-thirty-five in the evening and you have only been asleep for seventeen minutes."

 

Joan heaved herself up from Sherlock's thigh, grimacing at the feel of the sweat she always accumulated when she slept fully-dressed. It was completely dark in the flat except for the light from the telly that illuminated both of them on the couch.

 

"Sorry, Sherlock," she said sleepily, stretching her bad shoulder. "I didn't mean to fall asleep on you..."

 

He looked at her, his face all angles in the flickering light from the telly. "It's all right," he said. "As I understand, pregnancy is accompanied by an increase in levels of fatigue."

 

Joan yawned and stretched her other arm. "You shouldn't have let me fall asleep at this hour, though. Now I won't be able to sleep on time tonight."

 

"Stay up with me, then."

 

"Oh," she grinned, stretching her legs off the edge of the couch. "You mean I might finally be privy to the secret, solitary nighttime rituals of Sherlock Holmes?"

 

He frowned. "My nighttime rituals are hardly secret, you could come down and observe them at any time."

 

She laughed. "How are you so terrifically sarcastic to everyone else, but so horribly dense when the sarcasm is directed at _you_?"

 

He hesitated and turned back to the telly. She couldn't even remember what they'd been watching, but it had certainly ended and been replaced by something else at this hour. "There are some things that I cannot read so easily in other people."

 

Joan was shocked at the easy admission. It was unlike Sherlock to be so candid about his own shortcomings, particularly in the field of observation.

 

"Hey, it's all right," she said uneasily. "I'm sure it's something you deleted or – or failed to 'install' in the first place. It's not like sarcasm is really that important to solving crimes."

 

"On the contrary, it— _Joan_!" he broke off in a yelp.

 

She was messing up his hair with both hands, and after his initial jump, he was almost falling off the couch trying to get out of her reach. "Joan!" he yelled more sharply, trying to push her hands away. "What are you doing?"

 

"That's for letting me fall asleep at nine, you bastard!"

 

"Stop, _stop_!"

 

She finally obliged and sat back. He composed herself and glared at her angrily, trying to re-part and pat down his hair with his long fingers. Joan couldn't help but let out a little laugh at how ridiculous he looked with his hair sticking out at odd angles in the semi-darkness. Thankfully, not even Sherlock's looks could kill.

 

"Why would you do that?" he said crossly.

 

"I don't know, I guess I just wanted to do something silly," she said.

 

He bristled like a cat that had been pet the wrong way. "That was hardly humorous, Joan."

 

"I thought it was hilarious. God, I haven't don that to someone in _years_ ," she said fondly. "Harry and I used to mess up each other's hair all the time when we were kids. Did you and Mycroft ever do anything like that?"

 

Sherlock scowled and brushed a tuft of hair from his forehead. "Only until I was old enough to fight back."

 

Joan was unable to stop herself. She giggled so hard she almost fell from the couch. Of all the mental images she had of the Holmes brothers, that one was right up there with tiny Sherlock in a pirate hat...

 

* * *

 

It was a rainy evening in 221B, the completely mundane kind in which their cohabitation resembled something almost _normal_. Joan was sitting in her armchair typing the events in Sherlock's files from the time before they met to keep the content fresh on her blog during their lull between cases. Sherlock was playing the violin by the window – not a piece he had composed, but one of his favourite classical arrangements. She didn't know the name.

 

The day was nice. Quiet. Domestic, even. They didn't have a case at the moment, so she'd dragged Sherlock to the shops that afternoon to start collecting prices on baby merchandise and forming a budget. ("We could just look at prices online," Sherlock had complained. She argued back that it wasn't as much fun, and he looked at her as if she were mad.)

 

Joan was looking up baby names on the internet. It was completely unrelated to the actual baby inside her, actually, since she'd promised naming rights to Sherlock (within reason). She was looking up possible pseudonyms for the people that appeared in Sherlock's old cases, since she'd decided early on in her 'career' that she wouldn't use a client's real first name on her blog without their permission. But of course, as an expectant mother, it was hard to keep her mind completely on the work.

 

 _This one is really cute_ , she thought, scrolling through girls' names. _This one is beautiful_. She was really starting to regret promising Sherlock that he could pick the name, but then she remembered:

 

"Sherlock, what are you planning to name the baby?"

 

Sherlock slowed the bow of his violin, letting the sound quietly fade from the strings. He was still looking out the window. "That will depend on the gender, of course."

 

"Sure, but what are your ideas? You said you already had something in mind."

 

From her angle on the couch, she could see the very edge of his lips curl up in a smile. "Oh, Joan... you know how much I love my dramatic revelations. It's a _secret_."

 

She frowned. "You do remember that I get a veto, don't you?"

 

"Yes." He lifted the bow again. "You can pick the middle name, though, if you like." Then he resumed playing from the bar in which he'd left off.

 

Joan huffed and rolled her eyes. Well, if he picked something awful, she could just call the child by their middle name, then. _Bloody Sherlock, always a bloody drama queen_ , she thought, clicking into a list of boys' names.

 

She hoped their kid wouldn't be nearly as dramatic as their father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray, I updated something! Hopefully another update to this fic will be on the way very soon.
> 
> For those of you that read my other fem!Watson fic, "Reminisces", an update IS coming. I've had some awful writer's block on the latest chapter and my real life has been legitimately nuts... final exams at uni, weeks of travelling in the rural Balkans, and now I'm packing up my flat to move to another continent this Friday. So updates at the moment are a bit sporadic, but hopefully they'll be more regular once I'm not moving around all the time.


End file.
